Grit
by AlannasTara
Summary: A snapshot of what might have happened the night they spent in the barn in 5x10, 'Them'. One shot. Caryl. Written for Imorca as part of the 2018 Caryl Secret Santa Gift Exchangeon tumblr.


AN: Written as a gift to Imorca on for the 2018 Caryl Secret Santa Exchange on tumblr.

TW: contains references to Daryl's self harm in episode 5x10.

* * *

Wind and rain pelts the barn as Daryl sits up taking his shift on watch. It's not nearly as fierce as it had been when they'd all had to hold the doors against the walkers. Most of the storm has quieted. No more lightning flashes around them or thunder reverberating in the air. Just the calm and steady sound of the rain hitting the tin roof and the wind whooshing and whistling through the cracks in the slats of wood.

Every so often someone stirs in their sleep, moaning or rustling the straw and hay littering the floor, but for the most part it's peaceful.

Daryl holds the faded and dirty, yellow music box in his hands, inspecting the casing that houses the inner mechanisms. He knows Carl gave it to Maggie, and he figures fixing it for her might go a little ways into helping her feel better, by bringing her happier memories of her little sister. It's the least he can do, given he's failed to bring the girl home alive.

He's in the middle of prying the casing off when he hears Carol whimper.

It's been happening since Terminus, since they met back up. She hasn't slept a whole night without waking up from some awful dream or nightmare. She never says what it is, but he knows it weighs on her. Almost right on schedule, she startles awake, sitting upright and glancing around the barn in confusion.

When her eyes settle on him, she sighs in relief, her shoulders relax, and the tension notably leaves her thin frame.

He nods to her, motioning for her to join him by the wall. She often does on the nights he's on watch.

"Another bad one," Daryl murmurs. Almost a statement rather than a question, but with just enough inflection that Carol feels an acknowledgment is needed.

"Yeah," she responds, eyes downcast, studying the dirt beneath them.

He sees her surreptitiously wiping her cheeks out of his peripheral vision. She's skilled at hiding her traitorous tears, and if it was anyone else, they probably wouldn't notice.

But he isn't anyone else.

Something twists inside of him at the idea that she's feeling poorly enough about the nightmare that it's causing her to cry.

"What're you doing with that?" Carol asks, effectively changing the subject.

He lets her.

"Trying' to get it working again. Figure Maggie might like it. Carl gave it to her but it's broken."

"I didn't know you knew anything about music boxes."

"They're like most things, machines and gears and moving parts—know enough to get by, anyway."

She nods, holding out her hand for him to place the loose parts in as he works.

He passes a tiny screw over to her and she glimpses the angry, red burn mark on his hand, perfectly circular in shape.

She debates for a moment whether to bring it up. They don't talk about these things; each of them knows enough about each other that most things don't need to be said. They don't talk about their pain. They have to be okay. Don't want the others worrying about them on top of everything else they have on their plates. It's their pattern.

But her heart aches at the thought that he's inflicted pain on himself like this.

"Daryl?"

"Hmmm?" He grunts, wedging his fingers into the small space with the tiny musical gears.

"You want me to clean that up for you when you're done? Keep it from getting infected?"

Daryl glances up from the project, his question written on his face.

She motions gently to the burn on his hand, studiously avoiding his gaze. His entire frame tenses and stills, red tinting his ears and cheeks and flushing his neck in the soft glow of the lantern in the barn, as he realizes the object of her attention.

"Nah," he growls softly. "It's nothing." He turns, markedly fixing his attention on the contents of the box.

"You know you shouldn't leave it like that. All that dirt in there?"

"Said it's fine," Daryl huffs, a touch of exasperation in his tone, but his voice is soft, careful not to wake the sleeping Judith.

Carol nods, letting him have his way…for now.

"Did you get what you needed?" She asks.

He shrugs, scraping a gear with his fingernail.

"Nobody blames you. It wasn't your fault. Is punishing yourself really helping anything?"

"You said I needed to feel it. Tried. Couldn't. So…"

"And did it help?" Carol whispers quietly.

"Don't change nothin,'" he says on a sigh. "There's still dead geeks walking around, we're still starving, holin' up in barn that's about to fall to pieces. Still missing Bob, Ty, and Beth. Hershel. The prison." Daryl shakes his head. "Same ol' shit. Nothing's changed."

"Yeah." She murmurs.

"You were right. Can't save people. No matter what I do."

"That's not true. You saved me. Many times."

"Nah, you saved yourself. If you hadn't fought like hell, I'd been too late. We both know that."

"Which time?" Carol asks, and he can hear a slight tease in her voice, the mood of the conversation lifting.

"Every time," he says with finality. He hands her another screw and drags his old rag from his pocket, using the corner of the fabric to clean out space behind the gears.

"You really think cleaning it up is all it's gonna take to get it working again?" She motions to the rag in his hand.

"It for sure ain't gonna make it worse," he chuckles softly. "Don't know, to be honest. But at least it won't hurt. Ain't that what you're always telling me? ' _Cleanliness is next to godliness'_ or some shit like that?"

"I don't know that it applies here, but I guess you're right. Can't hurt it."

He hands her the rag and winds up the key, waiting and listening as the soft melodic strains of a child's lullaby filter through the air.

They sit next to one another, while the rain pours down and the music box plays, and peace fills the space surrounding them.

Carol leans against his shoulder, her eyes drooping, and he braces himself against the wall to provide her the support she needs.

"Hey," he mutters hushedly. "Know ya said you don't want to talk about it. That ya can't. But, if you ever want to...if you can? I'm here."

"I know."

"Might help, is all." He shrugs gently.

"Mmmhmmm. It might," she agrees. "Might also help for you to let me clean out that burn before you wind up just as broken down as that music box."

"Hey, I fixed it!" He protests.

"Yep. You did. By cleaning all that grit out of there. You see where I'm going with this?"

"Mmmhmm, noted."

She burrows deeper into his shoulder and he leans down, resting his head against hers. He winds the music box again, and the tune plinks quietly along as she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading!_

 _xoxoxo_


End file.
